I really don't get Facebook. I have an account, people signed up as my friends, people queued up waiting for me to confirm their friends requests (well, one), but I really don't see the point of it. I have colleagues listed as my friends. They're my bloody colleagues, for fuck's sake, I don't even talk to them at work!
Can somebody please enlighten me as to the point of Facebook? You have a conversation with somebody, but everybody else can see it. And anybody can just search for you and add you as their friend; "Some spurdy dur you really don't even talk to at work has added you as their friend on Facebook". You dread the e-mail coming through.
They're in the next office at work and you hardly speak to them there, would you like to confirm them as your friend on Facebook so they can see a load of your personal photos and messages with other internet ne'er-do-wells?
Hell no! NO! NO! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!
Sometimes they're welcomed, but generally these friend requests are puzzling, bordering on weirdo stalking. In fact, that's exactly what Facebook is: a stalking tool for people who should know better.
Drag up
YAY, Tootsie's on the telly! That's a great film. From the same era as 9 to 5, it just makes you feel good watching it.
"This bruise? Oh it's nothing, honestly. Just clumsy old me, walking into things!"
I have a painful bruise on my forehead where I've bashed it on the underside of the stairs. Here at Trump's house, the doorway from the living room into the dining room has been moved so that the walkway takes you beneath the stairs, as opposed to past the bottom of them. This isn't something that's happened recently (the doorway move), it's always been like that, but I keep twatting my head on the underside of the stairs. You know what it's like when you bash your head so hard that it makes your teeth really clatter together? That's what this is like.
Domestic bliss...ters
Me and Trump look like we've been fighting; she has a black eye from where she's been rubbing hers.
But we don't really fight. She shouts at me when we do domestic tasks. Today's torture was brought to us by the words "Ikea" and "Wonderweb". Ikea curtains being one length (about 5 metres), they need cutting down and hemming in order to fit any normal window. I don't like to get involved, but I feel I have to (I'm told I have to), then I get shouted at. The end result is good and we can finally open the living room curtains because a) they now glide along the new curtain track, and b) we have nets up to stop the nosy fishwives from staring in on their twice-daily promenades along the street.
Isn't the New Zealand accent funny?
Saturday, 22 September 2007
Friday, 14 September 2007
Dehydrated disasters
I have, in the past, extolled the virtues of dehydrated food that, when rehydrated with hot water, transform into fuckin' delish, nutrish meals. One of my all time favourites is the chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle, in my opinion, the ultimate pot-based snack. But now they are ruined. Why? Well, because of this:
Yes, Pot Noodles now contain 50% less salt than in 2005 - when coincidentally, I first wrote of my love for them. But what have manufacturers done? Have they just removed the salt to give noodle-lovers the opportunity to replace it themselves? Have they bollocks! The bastards have replaced it with potassium chloride - the stuff that gives you a metallic burning sensation in your mouth when you eat it.
BASTARDS!
Why do they have to mess about with things that you love? For fuck's sake, it's a Pot fucking Noodle! It's SUPPOSED TO BE SALTY! Just leave the fuck alone.
I really hate the salt Nazis who have taken over everything. Don't people realise that food doesn't taste of anything if there's no salt? There'll be reduced salt salty snacks next. Fucking arseholes.
I've e-mailed them to complain, but I don't think they'll respond. This consumer champion has well and truly lost her mojo.
The L Word
Nice to see that Living TV have put the fourth series of The L Word in the prime spot of midnight on a Friday night. Bastards.
You get four hours of CSI in the run up, but they couldn't bring it forward by an hour or so.
At least they didn't put the big bill board ads up for it this year; almost make me crash my car, they do.
Monsieur Rocky's coiffeur
Rocky had his first hair cut last week. I'm not sure what Angel did to him, but he had his lipstick out for 2 hours after and he's been trying to shag all the ladies since.
The next cut Rocky's getting ain't going to be with electric clippers.
Anyway, Boy Wonder has gone from this:
Yes, Pot Noodles now contain 50% less salt than in 2005 - when coincidentally, I first wrote of my love for them. But what have manufacturers done? Have they just removed the salt to give noodle-lovers the opportunity to replace it themselves? Have they bollocks! The bastards have replaced it with potassium chloride - the stuff that gives you a metallic burning sensation in your mouth when you eat it.
BASTARDS!
Why do they have to mess about with things that you love? For fuck's sake, it's a Pot fucking Noodle! It's SUPPOSED TO BE SALTY! Just leave the fuck alone.
I really hate the salt Nazis who have taken over everything. Don't people realise that food doesn't taste of anything if there's no salt? There'll be reduced salt salty snacks next. Fucking arseholes.
I've e-mailed them to complain, but I don't think they'll respond. This consumer champion has well and truly lost her mojo.
The L Word
Nice to see that Living TV have put the fourth series of The L Word in the prime spot of midnight on a Friday night. Bastards.
You get four hours of CSI in the run up, but they couldn't bring it forward by an hour or so.
At least they didn't put the big bill board ads up for it this year; almost make me crash my car, they do.
Monsieur Rocky's coiffeur
Rocky had his first hair cut last week. I'm not sure what Angel did to him, but he had his lipstick out for 2 hours after and he's been trying to shag all the ladies since.
The next cut Rocky's getting ain't going to be with electric clippers.
Anyway, Boy Wonder has gone from this:
To this:
He's been to the beach too. We think he liked it, although I think he may not have noticed the sand and the freedom of being without his lead, he seemed preoccupied in chasing Lea.
Tuesday, 4 September 2007
Shat Nav part the millionth
I promise never to use satellite navigation AGAIN unless I'm really unsure as to where I'm going. I will, from now on, return to my reliable road atlas and A-Z to get a handle on the roads in the vicinity before relying blindly on some gadget that communicates with things thousands of miles up in the air before telling me what I've been able to figure out for years up to now.
Imagine the great explorers of the past, how they travelled to the ends of the world, into the great unknown and lands of dragons, relying on the stars in the night sky. Well, that's how I feel when I rely on shat nav to get me anywhere. There's always a feeling of Where the fuck is it taking me? This makes no sense! Sometimes, it'll give plenty of warning of an approaching turn, other times it'll tell you when you're right on top of the junction, or worse, past it. It tells me to throw out my driving experience and sit in the outside lane of the motorway when I'm not overtaking anything. It makes a bad driver of a mediocre one.
Exhibit A - No escape from the back of beyond
On a day out in terribly Cheshire with my lovely Trump and our little dog, our route home was blocked by an accident on the road ahead. I followed the lead of others and turned round. Instead of saying "Have a look at the road atlas and see what alternative roads there are", I mistakenly said "Turn the sat nav on." After several attempts to get the thing to find us an alternative, we found ourselves further down the line of queuing traffic as the technology couldn't comprehend that we were trying to find a different way home. A brief look at the map would've told me to turn round and stay on the road .
It was like something out of a 1940s horror film or the Twilight Zone, where a person is trapped in space and time for all eternity. Forced to return to the same spot again and again.
Exhibit B - Out of pocket by £110
For some god unknown reason on Saturday, I used the shat nav to get to a place about 2 miles away that I could've figured out easily enough from the map. In fact the map was better because el stupido device lost the signal at a vital point in the journey and I had to use those things known as my eyes and common sense to get me to my destination.
On our return home, I was irritated that I was forced to park on the other side of the road because my usual parking space had been taken by something old with blacked out windows and big alloy wheels (that were probably worth more than the car). In the ensuing rant, and Trump's counter-rant, I forgot to unplug the sat nav power adapter from the cig lighter. No big deal, surely?
Big deal, definitely.
Come Sunday, my car battery was as flat as a fluke, but the breakdown man came quickly and his jump leads did the trick. It was raining and dark and I didn't see that there'd be any benefit to charging the battery by driving around with the demisters, blowers and lights on, so I revved the engine a bit and left it.
Monday morning: Battery flat again. This time I called on my sister to come and rescue me with jump leads. Car starts eventually and I decide to drive it really fast around the ring road to my sister's new house to give the battery a proper charge. Arrived, went inside, locked pooch in the garden, returned to car to go do a bit of shopping, car battery totally flat again.
Advice from Sid in my local garage: "Sounds like it's not holding its charge; the cells have probably collapsed. We don't have any batteries in, we get them to order, you could try Charlie Browns." So off I pootle to Charlie Browns and the only battery they have in for my car costs £95.
FUCK!
Back to Bomb's where I enlist the help of Dad and his trusty toolbag of totally useless tools - i.e. one adjustable spanner, one imperial spanner and a couple of pairs of pliers. Another £15 and a socket set and a lot of grease and swearing later - accompanied by yelping from a lonely dog - the old battery is out and the new one is in - although we can't tighten up the positive. The car starts, victory is ours.
I am totally fucked off. A hundred and ten pounds just because I left a charger for something that's frankly quite rubbish plugged in overnight. How can these things be designed to draw current without the accessory circuit being on?
Sat Nav is RUBBISH on so many counts.
Ring the alarm
On top of this we have a dog with separation anxiety who chews through alarm wires when he gets bored. I refuse to spend £70 to have a bit of wire replaced so I'm going to do it myself.
Idiot animal.
He's being groomed tomorrow - with clippers, not for child porn. I've been given some tips to help get him used to the idea. He won't keep still though and it'll be like trying to shave an eel. He's going to end up looking like some sort of burns victim.
Photos to follow no doubt.
Imagine the great explorers of the past, how they travelled to the ends of the world, into the great unknown and lands of dragons, relying on the stars in the night sky. Well, that's how I feel when I rely on shat nav to get me anywhere. There's always a feeling of Where the fuck is it taking me? This makes no sense! Sometimes, it'll give plenty of warning of an approaching turn, other times it'll tell you when you're right on top of the junction, or worse, past it. It tells me to throw out my driving experience and sit in the outside lane of the motorway when I'm not overtaking anything. It makes a bad driver of a mediocre one.
Exhibit A - No escape from the back of beyond
On a day out in terribly Cheshire with my lovely Trump and our little dog, our route home was blocked by an accident on the road ahead. I followed the lead of others and turned round. Instead of saying "Have a look at the road atlas and see what alternative roads there are", I mistakenly said "Turn the sat nav on." After several attempts to get the thing to find us an alternative, we found ourselves further down the line of queuing traffic as the technology couldn't comprehend that we were trying to find a different way home. A brief look at the map would've told me to turn round and stay on the road .
It was like something out of a 1940s horror film or the Twilight Zone, where a person is trapped in space and time for all eternity. Forced to return to the same spot again and again.
Exhibit B - Out of pocket by £110
For some god unknown reason on Saturday, I used the shat nav to get to a place about 2 miles away that I could've figured out easily enough from the map. In fact the map was better because el stupido device lost the signal at a vital point in the journey and I had to use those things known as my eyes and common sense to get me to my destination.
On our return home, I was irritated that I was forced to park on the other side of the road because my usual parking space had been taken by something old with blacked out windows and big alloy wheels (that were probably worth more than the car). In the ensuing rant, and Trump's counter-rant, I forgot to unplug the sat nav power adapter from the cig lighter. No big deal, surely?
Big deal, definitely.
Come Sunday, my car battery was as flat as a fluke, but the breakdown man came quickly and his jump leads did the trick. It was raining and dark and I didn't see that there'd be any benefit to charging the battery by driving around with the demisters, blowers and lights on, so I revved the engine a bit and left it.
Monday morning: Battery flat again. This time I called on my sister to come and rescue me with jump leads. Car starts eventually and I decide to drive it really fast around the ring road to my sister's new house to give the battery a proper charge. Arrived, went inside, locked pooch in the garden, returned to car to go do a bit of shopping, car battery totally flat again.
Advice from Sid in my local garage: "Sounds like it's not holding its charge; the cells have probably collapsed. We don't have any batteries in, we get them to order, you could try Charlie Browns." So off I pootle to Charlie Browns and the only battery they have in for my car costs £95.
FUCK!
Back to Bomb's where I enlist the help of Dad and his trusty toolbag of totally useless tools - i.e. one adjustable spanner, one imperial spanner and a couple of pairs of pliers. Another £15 and a socket set and a lot of grease and swearing later - accompanied by yelping from a lonely dog - the old battery is out and the new one is in - although we can't tighten up the positive. The car starts, victory is ours.
I am totally fucked off. A hundred and ten pounds just because I left a charger for something that's frankly quite rubbish plugged in overnight. How can these things be designed to draw current without the accessory circuit being on?
Sat Nav is RUBBISH on so many counts.
Ring the alarm
On top of this we have a dog with separation anxiety who chews through alarm wires when he gets bored. I refuse to spend £70 to have a bit of wire replaced so I'm going to do it myself.
Idiot animal.
He's being groomed tomorrow - with clippers, not for child porn. I've been given some tips to help get him used to the idea. He won't keep still though and it'll be like trying to shave an eel. He's going to end up looking like some sort of burns victim.
Photos to follow no doubt.
Saturday, 1 September 2007
Is it wrong?
Is it wrong to watch your dog (or cat) throw up his breakfast and then let him eat it to save you having to clean up warm sick?
Hell no!
Is it wrong to put mushy peas on my chips and gravy when I didn't ask for them?
Hell yes!
You see, mushy peas fall into the same category as mashed potatoes when it comes to things that infiltrate gravy with grainy cloudiness. I can't be doing with stuff that sullies my gravy. Instead of having a fuckin' delish plate of food, I ended up with something that looked like it had been fished out of the pig bin*.
WRONG, WRONG, WRONG!
And Trump wondered why I was in such a bad mood. Honestly, you'd have thought she'd know me by now.
*For those who didn't attend school in 1970s Britain, the pig bin was the big bin in the school canteen where the dinnerladies would empty the unfinished meals from children's plates - pudding and all. The leftovers were then collected by farms to be fed to pigs - or so we were led to believe.
A Mars a day
Once upon a time in a land not far away, there lived a scientist who went for a job at the Waltham Centre for Animal Research (or whatever it's called). You know Pedigree Masterfoods, makers of Pedigree Chum, Whiskas and other pet foods? Well they have to research their products and product components, so they have this fantastic facility in the Midlands where they do their stuff.
There are loads of dogs and cats, rabbits and less significant pets kept there and they're basically fed different food formulations before being tested for physiological wellbeing etc. Tested in a nice way - I think the worst that happens to them is that they have blood and wee samples taken.
All the animals are housed in fantastic accommodation and they seem to have a pretty good standard of living, all things considered. That's unless there's a back room where they stick electrodes in their heads to observe brain patterns when they're given different foods.
Anyway, Pedigree Masterfoods is owned by Mars and Mars also owns a chain of three animal care centres called "My Petstop", of which there's one here in Manchester. We're going to take Rocky to check out the grooming facilities later on; it's about time he started to look like a Mini Schnauzer rather than a Scottie dog.
I wonder if these places are a front for their animal research centre. What if they carry out secret experiments on the animals in their care? I may ask the sixteen year old "I just want to work with little animals" at the reception and see what sort of response I get. "And what is it you intend to do with his hair and nail clippings, do you have a intensive cloning programme that you're going to use it for? And don't be getting any funny ideas about hypnotising him and making him want to start eating Pedigree Chum!"
Hell no!
Is it wrong to put mushy peas on my chips and gravy when I didn't ask for them?
Hell yes!
You see, mushy peas fall into the same category as mashed potatoes when it comes to things that infiltrate gravy with grainy cloudiness. I can't be doing with stuff that sullies my gravy. Instead of having a fuckin' delish plate of food, I ended up with something that looked like it had been fished out of the pig bin*.
WRONG, WRONG, WRONG!
And Trump wondered why I was in such a bad mood. Honestly, you'd have thought she'd know me by now.
*For those who didn't attend school in 1970s Britain, the pig bin was the big bin in the school canteen where the dinnerladies would empty the unfinished meals from children's plates - pudding and all. The leftovers were then collected by farms to be fed to pigs - or so we were led to believe.
A Mars a day
Once upon a time in a land not far away, there lived a scientist who went for a job at the Waltham Centre for Animal Research (or whatever it's called). You know Pedigree Masterfoods, makers of Pedigree Chum, Whiskas and other pet foods? Well they have to research their products and product components, so they have this fantastic facility in the Midlands where they do their stuff.
There are loads of dogs and cats, rabbits and less significant pets kept there and they're basically fed different food formulations before being tested for physiological wellbeing etc. Tested in a nice way - I think the worst that happens to them is that they have blood and wee samples taken.
All the animals are housed in fantastic accommodation and they seem to have a pretty good standard of living, all things considered. That's unless there's a back room where they stick electrodes in their heads to observe brain patterns when they're given different foods.
Anyway, Pedigree Masterfoods is owned by Mars and Mars also owns a chain of three animal care centres called "My Petstop", of which there's one here in Manchester. We're going to take Rocky to check out the grooming facilities later on; it's about time he started to look like a Mini Schnauzer rather than a Scottie dog.
I wonder if these places are a front for their animal research centre. What if they carry out secret experiments on the animals in their care? I may ask the sixteen year old "I just want to work with little animals" at the reception and see what sort of response I get. "And what is it you intend to do with his hair and nail clippings, do you have a intensive cloning programme that you're going to use it for? And don't be getting any funny ideas about hypnotising him and making him want to start eating Pedigree Chum!"
Thursday, 30 August 2007
Bling
Trump got me some bling for my birthday. You can't really call it bling because it's too tasteful, but it's got sparkly bits in it. It' s lovely and it sits beautifully on the second finger of my left hand - it's a touch too big for the third finger of my right hand, where I'd normally wear a ring. I flashed it at Connie and she gasped "That's not on your ring finger is it?".
No, Mother, not yet. But think on and look sharp because one day you might have to be forking out for a wedding that you'd thought you'd got away with!
Twilight world
It's that strange time of day when the world starts coming awake. It's actually a bit later than that, but this being Manchester, nobody bothers getting up for work, so it stays quiet until a bit later in the morning.... or dinnertime, as it's known around here.
Little Rocky is in his twilight zone; he has not fulfilled his holy trinity of wee, breakfast, poo, so I am waiting for a bit till I make him go outside again.
You see, parents don't have this, so they? They just shove a nappy on a baby and let it mess itself so they can clean it up at their own convenience. Pet (dog) owners need to get their animals into a routine or the consequences can be disastrous. And smelly.
I haven't had a wee or blown my nose yet; I feel a little other-worldly myself. Nothing beats a good productive nose-blow. You always have to manoeuvre the tissue to give it another blow to try to dislodge a sticky one; wiping bogey on your nose when you know that tissues just don't work on those ones and a poke with a finger is the only thing that's bringing that baby out! I don't advocate nose-picking, but sometimes, in private, needs must.
The dog is turning into an adolescent. He met a friendly lady dog on Monday afternoon who was lovely and calm with him while he sniffed her face, then tried to hump it (her face). He is demanding more sleep; we now have to get him out of bed in the morning. He sometimes drops to the floor and refuses to move while we're trying to walk him.: "I can't believe you're making me WALK. I HATE YOU!"
Yesterday, he threw up at the entrance to a place where he wasn't allowed to go in. Good boy!
No, Mother, not yet. But think on and look sharp because one day you might have to be forking out for a wedding that you'd thought you'd got away with!
Twilight world
It's that strange time of day when the world starts coming awake. It's actually a bit later than that, but this being Manchester, nobody bothers getting up for work, so it stays quiet until a bit later in the morning.... or dinnertime, as it's known around here.
Little Rocky is in his twilight zone; he has not fulfilled his holy trinity of wee, breakfast, poo, so I am waiting for a bit till I make him go outside again.
You see, parents don't have this, so they? They just shove a nappy on a baby and let it mess itself so they can clean it up at their own convenience. Pet (dog) owners need to get their animals into a routine or the consequences can be disastrous. And smelly.
I haven't had a wee or blown my nose yet; I feel a little other-worldly myself. Nothing beats a good productive nose-blow. You always have to manoeuvre the tissue to give it another blow to try to dislodge a sticky one; wiping bogey on your nose when you know that tissues just don't work on those ones and a poke with a finger is the only thing that's bringing that baby out! I don't advocate nose-picking, but sometimes, in private, needs must.
The dog is turning into an adolescent. He met a friendly lady dog on Monday afternoon who was lovely and calm with him while he sniffed her face, then tried to hump it (her face). He is demanding more sleep; we now have to get him out of bed in the morning. He sometimes drops to the floor and refuses to move while we're trying to walk him.: "I can't believe you're making me WALK. I HATE YOU!"
Yesterday, he threw up at the entrance to a place where he wasn't allowed to go in. Good boy!
Wednesday, 29 August 2007
Hardship
"Fed up with your dishes still being wet when you take them out of the dishwasher? Why not try Finish Powerball/Fairy Active Burst or whatever shite we're advertising?"
Why not doing the pots by hand and leaving them to drain on the draining board like most of us have to?
Then again, it is quite annoying when you have to dry the dishes by hand when you'd have thought they'd come out dry from the machine.
Just shows you how much we rely on machines to do things for us. Why can't somebody invent a washing machine that washes, dries, irons, and puts away? Especially one that pairs socks. If I had the money, I'd like to be able to wear clothes only once then chuck them.
37
That's how old I am today.
Fuck.
Why not doing the pots by hand and leaving them to drain on the draining board like most of us have to?
Then again, it is quite annoying when you have to dry the dishes by hand when you'd have thought they'd come out dry from the machine.
Just shows you how much we rely on machines to do things for us. Why can't somebody invent a washing machine that washes, dries, irons, and puts away? Especially one that pairs socks. If I had the money, I'd like to be able to wear clothes only once then chuck them.
37
That's how old I am today.
Fuck.
Monday, 27 August 2007
Yes or no: Pride events
Notorious sporan-wearing Yorkshire poof Piggy McPigster made a very good point about Pride events in a comment on my previous post. Here it is:
"I really can't stand all this 'Pride' shite.
As I see it, it's no longe about being 'out' and getting some kind of acknowledgement for actually existing and (hopefully) gaining some kind of acceptance.
The whole thing has been commercialised to the point of becoming vomit inducing - the bars out to fleece everyone for every penny in their pocket, the clubs doing the same thing and - and this is where it really fucking annoys me - help only to strengthen the 'gay ghetto'.
I don't know about the dykes, but as far as the poofs are concerned, it's just one long jolly - everyone out to get as pissed as they can and to shag anyone they can get their hands on. Hence why you see the same old faces at every pride event around the country and beyond.
I don't feel the need to visit or take part in Pride events. I also have no need to line the pockets of the straights who once would never touch us but have now discovered the money to be made from us. I also don't need to visit such events to feel 'love' or to be part of a so-called community (biggest crock of shite I ever heard).
I'm a human being, first of all and that makes me feel proud enough. Events such as this do nothing to enhance the image we have, despite what anyone says."
He's right of course. The Village in Manchester is teeming with people making money out of people who they probably don't care too much for. The takeaways and taxi firms there are run by people of a certain religion that would happily see all LGBT people hanged, stoned or burned to death. During the Big Weekend, stall holders rake it in selling tat, the main bars have floats on the parade that are manned by muscular straight boys, some of whom clearly find approaches by enthusiastic gay blokes quite distasteful. Then again, given some of the enthusiastic gay blokes, most gay blokes would probably find them distasteful.
So why support Pride? Why line the pockets of those who hate us? Why put on a freak-show display for the sake of straight people who think that being gay is all fun and games, a constant party?
Let's have a look at some of the messages from the parade itself. First of all, the Christians and the National Front were positioned at prominent locations on the route. This is a leaflet the Christians were handing out:
Then there are the statistics in the UK:
The global attitudes to homosexuality:
So I guess it's important to show ourselves to the world every now and again to remind people that yes, we're normal, but no we're not the same. Some like to get the message across a little more subtly:
Of course, some just like to make a show of themselves.
I think Pride is an important and necessary event. Gay people are still not accepted. I still have difficulty with things, still have to pretend to be "living with a friend" to my family. You still have to be careful about where you go on holiday, and worry about whether you can hold your partner's hand in public in certain parts of town.
For an interesting angle on Manchester Pride and how people find it abhorrent that, while businesses make up to about £20m from the event, the charities that it is supposed to support get about £65,000, check out www.get-bent-manchester.com. They even invaded the main parade.
So, think on and look sharp. And if you don't want to line the pockets of the bar owners, try to slip a bottle vodka in your man bag, or under the back of your mullet.
Not all Christians are obsessed with being shocked and appalled at who people have sex with:
Of course, some just like to make a show of themselves.
And some fuckers get to ride a tank through the streets of Manchester!
I think Pride is an important and necessary event. Gay people are still not accepted. I still have difficulty with things, still have to pretend to be "living with a friend" to my family. You still have to be careful about where you go on holiday, and worry about whether you can hold your partner's hand in public in certain parts of town.
For an interesting angle on Manchester Pride and how people find it abhorrent that, while businesses make up to about £20m from the event, the charities that it is supposed to support get about £65,000, check out www.get-bent-manchester.com. They even invaded the main parade.
So, think on and look sharp. And if you don't want to line the pockets of the bar owners, try to slip a bottle vodka in your man bag, or under the back of your mullet.
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